The Past He Tried to Forget

He was seven years old in his previous life when the symptoms first appeared. At first, they were easy to miss, little things, like falling more often during soccer practice or struggling to run across the playground to catch his friends during a game of tag. His teachers noticed but didn't think much of it. "He's just clumsy," they said with the same dismissive tone they used to scold him for not being able to write fast enough in class.

But at home, his mother started to notice things that didn't sit right. He rarely ran to her anymore when she returned from her long shifts at the diner. Climbing into bed had become an ordeal, his little legs shaking until she swooped him into her arms with a laugh, masking her concern.

"Stop spoiling him, Layla," his father would say gently, placing a supportive hand on her shoulder. "He's just a boy. He'll toughen up."

But Layla's instincts told her otherwise. Late at night, she sat at the kitchen table, staring at medical brochures she had picked up from a clinic, her mind racing with possibilities. When she brought her concerns up to her husband again, he kissed her forehead and reassured her. "He's just growing. Kids stumble. Don't overthink it."

Yet by the time Ali turned eight, the truth became impossible to deny. His legs, once full of boundless energy, had started to betray him. He struggled to climb the stairs in their modest home, often crawling on all fours, his brow furrowed in frustration. He tripped over small cracks in the sidewalk that other kids didn't even notice. Layla, who had always prided herself on being optimistic, couldn't suppress the growing knot of fear in her chest.

"Something's wrong," she whispered one night after Ali had gone to bed. Her voice cracked as she looked at her husband Akram, who sat at the edge of the couch, his work clothes still stained with dirt and cement from his long day as a construction worker. "We need to take him to a doctor."

"I know," Akram admitted, his voice low with reluctant worry. "I've been thinking the same thing."

The diagnosis came not long after. The cold, sanitary room seemed to close in on them as the doctor explained Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy. The words felt heavy, like stones being dropped one by one onto their chests, progressive, degenerative, no cure. Ali sat on the examination table, his little legs swinging as he glanced between the adults. He didn't understand the medical terms, but he understood the look on his mother's face. Her quiet, heartbreaking despair. She gripped Akram's calloused hand so tightly that her knuckles turned white.

"How long?" she asked, her voice trembling.

The doctor hesitated, his face grim. "Most children with Duchenne… they typically don't live beyond their twenties."

It felt like the air had been sucked out of the room. Layla's grip on Akram's hand faltered, and he instinctively reached up to steady her.

"Will I get better?" Ali asked innocently, his voice small and hopeful.

The silence that followed was deafening. Neither parent could bring themselves to answer. The doctor tried to soften the blow, but even Ali, in his eight-year-old naivety, could see through the forced gentleness.

That night, as Layla tucked him into bed, he asked again. "Mother, am I going to be okay?"

She kissed his forehead and held him close, rocking him like she had when he was a toddler. "You're strong, my boy. Stronger than you know. And we'll take care of you, always."

But late that night, when she thought everyone was asleep, Ali heard her crying. The sound shattered him in ways he didn't yet have the words to describe.

Life changed rapidly after that. By the time Ali turned nine, walking had become almost impossible. He started using a wheelchair to move around, a change he initially thought would make things easier. But it didn't. His classmates, who once invited him to their basketball games or kickball matches, slowly began to pull away.

"Crippled Ali," they whispered behind his back. "Dead weight."

He laughed with them at first, pretending the words bounced off him like harmless rubber balls. But when he was alone, the weight of their cruelty pressed down on him. He cried into his pillow, muffling the sound so his parents wouldn't hear. They were already doing enough for him. He didn't want to add to their burden.

And burden, Ali knew, was exactly what he had become. His father's construction job couldn't keep up with the medical expenses, physical therapy, specialized equipment, doctor visits. His mother picked up extra shifts at the diner, working so late into the night that her bright smile grew dim and her laughter became scarce.

One particularly cold evening, Ali awoke to the sound of his parents arguing in the kitchen.

"I'm doing everything I can," Akram hissed, his voice thick with frustration. "Three shifts a day and it's still not enough."

Layla's response was quieter but no less anguished. "I'll pick up more hours. There's that donation program from the charity in town… maybe they can help."

"We can't live off charity, Layla," Akram thundered before his voice cracked into a whisper. "We can't…"

The argument ended when they heard the creak of Ali's wheelchair in the hallway. They turned to see him sitting silently, his face pale and lined with guilt.

The following year brought heartbreak they hadn't anticipated. Layla, who had always been the foundation of their family, began to grow ill herself. She brushed it off as fatigue, blaming her long hours at the diner and the stress of juggling bills. But when she collapsed one evening while bathing Ali, they realized it was something far worse.

The diagnosis came swiftly: late-stage cancer.

Akram tried to stay strong for both of them, but the weight of losing Layla was unbearable. Ali, confined to his wheelchair, felt utterly helpless as he watched his once-vivacious mother fade away.

On her final night, she asked Akram to bring Ali to her hospital bed. With trembling hands, she stroked her son's face, her eyes filled with unshed tears.

"I'm so proud of you, my love," she whispered. "I wish I could stay longer… but promise me you'll keep fighting. Promise me you won't give up."

Ali sobbed into her chest, clinging to her as tightly as his weakening arms would allow. "Don't go, Mother. Please… I'll be better. I'll try harder. Just don't go."

But she was gone by sunrise.

Her death shattered their family. Akram, once a steadfast pillar of strength, was barely able to hold them together. The financial strain became worse, their small home falling into disrepair. Meals were scarce. The electricity would flicker during storms. Treatment for Ali came only through the kindness of strangers, donations from neighbors, funds raised by their mosque, and charity programs. Every time Ali heard the word "donation," it made him feel smaller, more unworthy.

"Why don't we stop?" he asked his father one evening. "Stop the treatments. Stop the therapy. I'm just making things harder."

Akram slammed his fist on the table, his voice thick with fury and heartbreak. "You are not a burden, Ali. You are my son. And as long as I have breath in my body, I will fight for you."

Ali didn't respond. He simply looked away, wishing he could believe his father's words.

By the time Ali turned eighteen, his body was a shadow of what it once had been. His arms could no longer move. His lungs barely managed to breathe on their own. Winter brought pneumonia, and though he survived, the damage it left behind was permanent.

One cold February evening, as his father sat on the edge of his hospital bed, Ali turned his head weakly to look at him.

"Why do you stay?" he whispered.

Akram's voice broke as he replied, "Because you're my son. And I love you. No sickness, no struggle will ever change that."

Ali's lips quivered into the faintest smile, but his eyes glistened with tears. His father stayed by his side through the final hours, holding his hand as the machines surrounding them began to beep erratically. As the darkness closed in, Ali's final thought was one of desperation.

I don't want to die. Please, someone, let me live.

The memory cracked apart, splintering like fragile glass, pulling Ali back into the present moment. His chest ached with the echoes of a life filled with love, loss, and relentless pain.

But the one thing that lingered most was his mother's final promise: Don't give up.